


How It All Went Sideways

by EmbraceSadness



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, References to Drugs, Trigger Warnings, Triggers, Warnings May Change, blonde involved, kind of a love story?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbraceSadness/pseuds/EmbraceSadness
Summary: My view of Thad's life throughout most of it's entirety. Not always canon. Mentions of drug abuse and coarse language. Trigger warning.





	1. MY CRAPPY LIFE

I was never fast.

 

Which, in retrospect, seems kind of stupid. Having super speed accurately depicts the ability to move quickly. Like, fast?

 

So, I guess that statement isn’t correct.

 

I was never fast enough.

 

And, it’s not like I was born knowing this. Hell, I wasn’t ever really born in the first place. More like created. Crafted. Like I'm an arts project.

 

I wasn’t born knowing this, and I didn’t grow up knowing this. Even though I thought I knew everything. Even though I was supposed to know everything.

 

I was faster than Wallace at one point. Faster than Jay. I could keep a steady pace with Barry. Which was fine. It was acceptable. At least I wasn’t miserably failing at something. At least I was doing my family name some justice.

 

But Bart Allen is by far the most despicable person on this planet.

 

He ruins everything.

 

The thing being, I wasn’t as fast as him. With the wind in that stupid face of his that looked so much like mine. With those feet that clopped heavily on the ground with each step he took. With breaths that were deep and shallow as he fought. With piercing eyes and a lopsided smile.

 

I hated that smile.

 

I wasn’t faster than him. My opposite. My nemesis. My other half.

 

I wasn’t fast enough.

 

This really pissed me off.

 

This also really pissed the Reverse-Flash off. Eobard Thawne, the third most despicable person on this planet (the second is me, duh). The guy can’t get a clue. He’s been fighting a, what, God-knows how many generation spawned war against the Allens just because he had some weird boner for Barry Allen that he couldn’t control?

 

The guy’s hair looked like a mop, for fuck’s sake.

 

(side note, I sincerely hope I do not grow up to have hair like that, I will honestly have to kill myself if I do…)

 

But, yeah, the Reverse-Flash (with the huge boner) said something along the lines of “we’re disowning you until you find a way to run faster than fast, so yeah, see you.”. This really pissed me off, but a Thawne doesn’t stay where they are not welcome, so, whatever. I left.

 

Alone. Abandoned by both my families. Rejected and left to sit outside in the cold rains of the cruel world I was raised in.

 

Right. I would be feeling all of that shit if I was an emotional human being. And, if you’re an idiot and haven’t taken the hint as of yet, I'm not an emotional human being. For all I was concerned, the Allens and Thawnes could go fuck themselves. Like, actually. The sexual tension there was real and prevalent and scary.

 

I'd honestly prefer being on my own. Nobody to limit me. To tell me what to do. I hate when people tell me what to do. I believe the slogan is actually “America, Land Of The Free” not, “America, Land Of The Egotistical Sociopaths Who Ruin Young Boys Lives By Having Them Shipped Off To Catholic School Where They Are Then Molested By Evil Priests Who May Or May Not Be Aliens From Area Fifty One Addicted To McDonald's Hamburgers”.

 

Or, something like that.

 

I was actually fine for the first couple of days. Well, it felt like days. It was probably months or maybe about a year, depending on how much I decided to fuck with the space-time continuum. I honestly don’t remember. My memory is complete shit.

 

But, after awhile, I really started to get pissed. Wasn’t I supposed to be superior to The Idiot in each and every way possible? Mentally and physically more capable? Emotionally more stable? I was so much better compared to him, I could even be him. Replace him. Take his place.

 

The fact that I wasn’t faster was a constant ache in my side that I couldn’t help but begin to resent.

 

I hated him. Not because of a family feud, but because I had actually been born with the idea of hating him in my mind. It was always there, lurking like that awful pain in my side. Always there, whispering to me at the back of my mind.

 

That honestly sounds like bullshit, but I don’t know any other way to describe it.

 

And, quite honestly, family feuds waging on for generations are fucking stupid. I mean, yeah, I hate The Idiot, but it’s not like I'm going to spend all my days curled up in a corner surrounded by conspiracy theories, articles, and a cat named Bessy trying to find ways to take down my nemesis.

 

I'm no Doofenshmirtz. He’s not Perry The Platypus.

 

A God-awful show, but one that I am familiar with nonetheless.

 

I hate him because he is an idiot. Because I am superior, and that is what the more powerful are supposed to do. Look down on those below you. Squash them as though they are scum below your boot.

 

But, The Idiot taught me a few things. And, despite the fact that attempting to kill him can be quite amusing, there’s nothing more to it than that. I get bored. He gets bored. Hell, he’s less patient than I am, and I am not a tolerant man-baby-clone-person-thing.

 

The Boner Dude would probably have a name for me. Deject, perhaps?

 

Deject sounds nice. I like Deject.

 

The ache in my side grew until the bubble finally burst. It was ingrained in my mind that I had to do something, but I had no idea what. Life tends to fuck you up like that. Sets you up on a path and leaves the rest for you to figure out.

 

I couldn’t exactly run over and ask The Boner Guy to lend me some speed. The Idiot would be even less helpful.

 

Abandoned. Alone.

 

A drama coming to you soon, only on Netflix

 

Yeah right.

 

I think I have to mention the fact that at this point, most of my powers were gone. Like, I don’t really know where they went. But, one day, they just decided to leave for Hawaii or something. So, fuck them too.

 

I, personally, would have gone to Canada.

 

I would run to Canada, but…

 

No powers. Slight problem.

 

I actually thought that life was going to continue on sucking like this for quite some time. That I wasn’t going to ever be able to move my ass from where I was. I wasn’t exactly spiralling, but I wasn’t going anywhere either.

 

Us speedsters always have to be moving. We’ll go mad if we’re not.

 

Being nomadic was okay, but I was running out of ideas. Even the use of the word “running” in that sentence makes me mad, so fuck me. I don’t know how I lost my shoes, but I did. I don’t know how I lost my mind, but I did.

 

I wasn’t moving.

 

Until one day in a broken down warehouse, when a man named Deathstroke approached me with an offer that royally fucked me up.


	2. DICK'S STALKER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC Deathstroke is OOC. I have no regrets.
> 
> (Probably...)

“What’s a little boy like you doing in a place like this?” he said to me the first time we met. He opened up with a line like that.

 

Seriously, what the hell?

 

That would be like approaching your newborn baby for the first time and saying “We got this thing in the bag!”

 

Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that sentence can be seriously misinterpreted by some very paranoid people. Especially if you’re a girl in China.

 

Racist? Too bad I don’t give two shits.

 

But, I digress.

 

I mean, at the time, I didn’t know very much about Deathstroke. I had once heard somebody jokingly call him “Dick’s Stalker”. No idea _why_ , but what the hell, right?

 

Orange-Black-n’-Blue had a dangerous glint in his eyes. One that I liked, but was wary of. People like that are smart; cunning. They might as well have huge signs saying “WATCH OUT, I BITE” taped to to back of their heads. They’d be good fish. Or maybe fisherman.

 

And people like me are made out to be the bait.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “Well? I'm waiting for an answer?”

 

Me:

 

Dick’s Stalker: “Don’t be afraid, child. I don’t bite... _much_.”

 

It was then that I discovered two things. One, Dick’s Stalker is a fucking creep. And, two, he’s probably under the influence of something pretty heavy, because this is seriously not the normal way a high-class assassin does things, what the hell?

 

Dick’s Stalker: “You’re in my warehouse.”

 

Me: “Don’t see your name on it.”

  
  
And, shit, I just blew it. Well, I didn’t blow it. He’s going to blow it. His gun. He’s going to blow it right in my face. And what a pretty face it was, too. If I die, somebody is going to have to have a funeral for my face. They’ll cut it off and place it in a jar. I’ll just stare out at all the attendees (my imaginary fucking friends, hurrah) lifelessly.

 

We’ll send the ashes to The Idiot. See how he likes that.

 

It was at this point that Dick’s Stalker began to grin. Now, grins are _great_ ...when they’re on _my_ face. Because I can pull off a grin and manage to look like pretty fucking badass while doing so.

 

This guy just looked like a _perv_. Then again, he _was_ , so…

 

Dick’s Stalker: “Oh, so that’s how you want to play it, huh?”

 

At this point, I had already evaluated all my options, and calculated every different possible way he could (and _would_ ) kill me. Indefinitely. Hence the term “death”. Signs pointed to I was screwed. Thaddeus Thawne The Second, the Human Eight Ball.

 

Coming soon to you only on Netflix.

 

_Right._

 

(Netflix fucking _sucks_ , I will _never_ stop putting it down, try to stop me, dammit!)

 

Oh. Wait, shit. Dick’s Stalker was going on some sort of rant about how I was an arrogant little shit. I’ve already heard this a million times. My toes curled together. I gritted my teeth.

 

Damn, it was cold.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “The honest truth is, I’ve _heard_ of you, Thaddeus. And I’ve heard _all_ good things.”

 

Wait just one fucking second. I don’t remember telling this fucker my name, age, address, place of birth, date of birth, favourite color, or how my fish named Kyle died. No, no. I’ve actually said jackshit. And, the stuff that I have said has _still_ _been_ jackshit.

 

So, what the actual hell?

 

Me: “What the actual hell?”

 

He laughed.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “No need to worry about any of that. What I'm _really_ curious about is exactly _how_ you function. You’re not like others, my boy, are you?”

 

Him calling me “my boy” reminds me of fucking Lex Luthor. At this point, I was just about ready to call it quits and kindly fuck off, but something in my gut was telling me to stay. I was also willing to fuck my gut, but that’s just weird and gross and the thought of my guts spread gorily over the warehouse isn’t a pleasant sight to behold.

 

So I kept my mouth shut. I said nothing.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “I have a proposition for you.”

 

Me:

 

Dick’s Stalker: “I know what you want. To kill the Allens, right? I can help you with that. I have this formula. Velocity 9. It can speed up even the most average human being. I can give it to you, Thaddeus.”

 

Holy shit.

 

Wait, seriously?

 

I mean, this guy hasn’t really given me much of a reason to trust him as of yet. Let’s backtrack: He walks in like Lex Luthor, talks like Talia Al Ghul, only to creepily declare that he has some sort of formula that will help me like the Joker.

 

And, let me guess, he’s just doing this out of the good of his heart, right?

 

The entire thing seems sketchy as fuck. Like, no offense to Dick’s stalker, but isn’t being a professional, _non-creep_ part of the job description in becoming an assassin?

 

If he’s like this, I can’t wait to meet that Football Professional guy. Sportsmaster?

 

His name fucking kills me inside. You can’t really tell, because I don’t really laugh. But it’s so pathetic. I could probably shit a better name out of my ass after eating a can of alphabet soup.

 

And my code name’s _Inertia_. That’s _saying_ _something_.

 

Me: “Oh yeah. I'm sure you’re just the type to walk around in random warehouses offering to help young blondes stuck in sticky situations because you’re just _that_ _kind_.”

 

He laughed again, even though it wasn’t that funny. I’m beginning to see why people called this guy Dick’s Stalker. He’s a stalker. And a dick.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “Right, _well_ , you caught me. I would need a certain payback, but I can ensure you that the formula _does_ work.”

 

It _did_ work.

 

I tried it out. And, just like that, my speed was back. They were all tanned and beached out from that trip to Hawaii. ‘Hang loose!’ they yelled out, and they came back. And I could run.

 

Like, holy shit, I could _run_.

 

I was so focused on that factor, so excited, that I barely even processed what Mr. Bandana said next. My mind was moving at a million miles per hour. I was thinking of all the different things I could do with this new formula. With this new idea.

 

I don’t get excited very often. It was kind of weird.

 

I should have expected something was off, even back then.

 

But I didn’t. Because I didn’t care.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “-of course, nothing in this world comes for free. You do know that, don’t you?”

 

Me: “Mhhmmm.”

 

Lazily staring off into space. That was what I was busy doing. The cold didn’t even bother me anymore. It was just me, now. I didn’t need The Boner Dude. I didn’t need the Idiot. Just this Velocity 9 shit, and I was good to go.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “I have a team-the Titans East-that I am setting up. We are fighting against the Titans, among other things. If you are going to be using the formula, you’re going to be using it on _my_ team and on _my_ terms.”

 

Who were the Titans again? Shit, did I miss out on something really important?

 

The whole “Come Join My Team, Have Lots Of Fun, We’ll Bake Cookies” thing pissed me off (go figure), but I just nodded. I was, after all, so close to my freedom. I could taste it, feel it, touch it. So, what was a little annoyance? Whoever the hell the Titans were, I'd have fun beating the shit out of them.

 

And then go beat the shit out of The Idiot.

 

Ten out of ten, best plan ever. I'm going to pat myself on the back. I'm so fucking brilliant.

 

Dick’s Stalker: “ _And_ , there’s _one more_ _thing…_ ”

 

 _Dammit_.

 

There’s always _one more thing_.

 

Me: “Mhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

 

The exaggeration of “mhmmmmm’s” is not at all an exaggeration. My mouth was doing weird shit that day. My tongue dragged itself sloppily around my throat. Plus I was annoyed. Plus plus I was bored.

 

_And, now, it’s time for…_

 

_“DICK’S STALKER IS A FUCKING CREEPER!”_

 

Directed by: the one and only Thaddeus Thawne.

 

Starring:

 

  * The one and only Thaddeus Thawne
  * Dick’s Stalker
  * An old, smelly warehouse
  * _ANNNNDDDDD_ SEXUAL TENSION!



 

_*DICK’S STALKER approaches THADDEUS THAWNE THE SECOND in a creepy-like manner. ENTER ‘SEXUAL TENSION!’*_

 

STALKER: “I need something, Thaddeus. Something that only _you_ can give me…”

 

_*STALKER reaches over and brushes his hand against THADDEUS THAWNE THE SECOND’s cheek. STALKER grins. THADDEUS shivers*_

 

THADDEUS: “And what would that be?”

 

*STALKER smirks once more*

 

STALKER: “Oh.” _*leans into THADDEUS*_ “I think you know.”

 

END SCENE. EXIT ALL CHARACTERS.

 

END ACT ONE.

 

Okay, so, that entire thing might be a bit of a stretch as to what really happened.

 

I could go on to describe _exactly_ what happened, but I think it’d be best for everybody’s mental health to just keep the details to myself. I will say that Dick’s Stalker is a creep. And that his dick is the size of a fucking tic-tac.

 

Actually, the act of him forcing me onto this team or _actually_ fucking me senseless wasn’t what pushed me over the edge.

 

It was that _damned_ drug.


	3. ON MY WAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess this is kind of like a Happy Holidays thing for anybody who is even reading this, lol. To those who are, THANK YOU! I didn't know anybody could ever like a fic such as this one...
> 
> OOC everything is OOC. I have no regrets.
> 
> (Definitely not true...)

 

I remember back when I was a much younger version of myself, people used to look at me and say things. Things that I didn’t understand. They were on the outside. They weren’t real.

 

All that was real was the tube. 

 

All that information and centuries old hate would float up to my head, and I would just smile, and take it all in. The pain, and the fresh wounds.

 

I was what you might call a “kid” back then. 

 

I’m not anymore.

 

Now, I am walking to Deathstroke’s. Now, I am cold. Now, I have a mission. A purpose. A reason for being here. Gods, I sound like one of those guys from those action film movies. Like Liam Neeson.

 

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are looking for a boy with a good set of life skills, I can tell you I don’t have them. But what I do have is a particular set of skills. Skills that I have acquired over a very long time of being fucked by forty year old mercenaries. Skills that make me a fuckboy for people like you.

 

If you let my dick go now, that will be the end of it. I will not look for you. I will not pursue you. But if you don’t…I will look for you...I will find you…

 

_ And I will chop your dick off. _

 

Sometimes I wonder why I never thought of becoming a movie star instead of a body utilized for age-old revenge. I could have made fucking millions. I’d be rolling in dough, and then Allen would be my fuckboy. Everything would be switched.

 

Goddamn, I should pursue an acting career after I fulfill my destiny of killing off all the Allens. I should be done in approximately...thirty-eight years. Gives me plenty of time to build up my pornstar qualities and undeniable ability of making people rock hard.

 

Sometimes my thoughts scare me.

 

_ Naaah _ , just kidding. My mind is fucked and I love it.

 

_ Anyways _ , so there I was, walking to Deathstroke’s little playboy magazine fantasy extraordinaire-I mean fuckboy group. I think they were called the Rogues. Or maybe not. Didn’t somebody say something about a Teen Titans? I don’t even know at this point…

 

Anywho, you’re not here to listen to me drone on about life and all it’s incredible fucked up plans. You’re here for the action! So, I’ll just skip to the part where I ended up at what I now know is called Titans East.

 

(We really need to work on the nickname, but in hindsight, it’s better than the Rogues…)

 

First impression?

 

This place is a fucking dump.

 

I mean, I’m not used to living in luxury or anything, but my  _ test tube _ looked comfier than this shit. I mean, it was worse than the  _ warehouse _ for fuck’s sake. And that place was surrounded by the overwhelming smell of piss and burning rubber.

 

Yupperdupper.

 

I like that word.

 

Don’t bother knocking ever, children! It is not useful to anybody ever. It wasn’t useful to me, anyways. I just vibrated my molecules through the door like a boss and, whammo, there I was. Standing inside our super top-secret-mega-ultra hideout. 

 

So much pride.

 

_ (Sarcasm.) _

 

And this is when things start getting kind of confusing and really fast. So, just try to keep up? I never said this story was the easiest to tell.

 

To start off,  _ many _ chicks in this group. Too many. Like, they’re all walking around there like they fucking own the place. They practically do. Deathstroke is probably fucking them senseless too. Dick’s Stalker seems like the type of guy who is a major asshole.

 

I’m just saying.

 

Don’t really know much about my teammates, to be quite frank. Don’t even know their names.  There’s this one chick called Duela Dent. I think she’s Harvey Dent AKA Two-Face’s daughter. Point A, her surname. Point B, Duela equals Duel equals Jekyll and Hyde equals a ton of crazy in a whole lot of pretty.

 

She’s a crazy chick. But, she’s a classy chick.

 

I like her.

 

She’s got spite.

 

So, we’ve got Crazy Bitch Number One and Crazy Bitch Number Two who is always speaking in riddles, so I’m pretty sure she’s the Riddler’s daughter. I didn’t sign up to hang out with Batman’s crew. Not cool, Dick’s Stalker.

 

Of course, this only got worse when they brought out fucking Batgirl AKA Deaf-I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck girl. She is oh-so-thoughtfully nicknamed that way since she’s either deaf or just doesn’t give a fuck.

 

I haven’t bothered to find out which one.

 

Oh! And this only gets better, by the way. Next guy I met was the clone of Superman. Pretty awesome, right? Project Match. I actually bother to keep updated on what my fellow clones are up to, especially the rogue ones. 

 

There were a couple of others too. Some who seemed excited. Others who just seemed crazy. Thinking back on it now, I was probably a bit overwhelmed by the entire thing. I guess I just had to get  _ whelmed _ . 

 

Eh?

 

Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.

 

But, wait! If you’re confused or bored or about to click out of this, REFRAIN FROM DOING SO! Because, I’m just getting to the best part, you see!

 

Did I mention this was a  _ love _ story?

 

No, I  _ didn’t _ !? Goddammit, Thaddeus Thawne The Second! You’ve got to keep the viewers up to speed.

 

That last sentence makes me angry for known, personal reasons.

 

Ugh.

 

This is a love story of a caliber that you can not even  _ begin _ to comprehend. And it all started with a girl and a single knockout punch to the head.

 

So, basically, how most love stories begin.

 

There I was, trying to act cool in front of my new peers and  _ succeeding _ , when she walked in and I completely  _ lost _ said cool. And, for good reason too! The heat radiating off of her was nuts! This was because she was actually a human fireball. Like, a torch and everything.

 

Scary. And crazy hot.

 

Literally and figuratively.

 

Of course, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in the world. And, like most lovesick puppies out there, I decided in that moment I would do everything in my power and very being to make her my own and to protect her from the Crazy Bitches and Dick’s Stalker for the rest of our lives with one another. In a matter of moments I planned out our wedding date, out mortgage fees, what we would name our children, and what we would say to each other in our dying breaths.

 

Her named was obviously Sungirl because she was obviously the sun and light of my life. The reason I woke up in the morning. The reason I woke up period.

 

Obviously.

 

So, of course, I said the most intelligent and reasonable thing I could come up with in that moment to her.

 

“Would you rather our daughter’s name be Sherry or Felicia?”

 

That, ladies and gentleman, is where the knockout punch comes in. I can assure you it is not something that just happens in your favorite anime television show with the gay ice skaters. Nope, it’s a real life thing that can actually knock you out.

 

And leave a nasty burn.

 

Let’s just say that when I woke up I wanted to kill myself. Never in my life had I received a headache on such a grand scale. Not even the Idiot had managed such a feat.

 

Mighty impressive.

 

Of course, she was sitting there and staring at me. I stared back with just as much force since I was still a little bit winded and- _ dare I say _ - _ slow _ .

 

Light Of My Life And Everything Pure And Holy In This World: “Who the fuck are you and why the fuck would I name my child Felicia?”

 

Me: “Or Sherry.”

 

Light Of My Life And Everything Pure And Holy In This World: “Do you want me to hit you again?”

 

Me: “Noooppeeeeee.”

 

Light Of My Life And Everything Pure And Holy In This World: “Okay. Then stay away from me, alright?”

 

Me: 

 

Okay, so, I messed up. Big time. Like, super messed up. I’d fucked up. That’s a better word. Definitely screwed it. Great job, Thad. You let her get away. Katy Perry warned you about all of this, but did you listen? No,  _ no _ , you didn’t.

 

Alright. So, the love story was put on a slight hold when she walked out of that room, but I can assure you that this is still a love story nonetheless! And, in the end, I’ll get the girl.

 

Probably. Maybe.

 

Whatever. 

 

_ On my way _ , I guess…

 

(Fourth wall break there, HA!)


End file.
